Beyond the Rocks

Late that night, in the old panelled library at Bracondale, Hector

walked up and down. He, too, was suffering, suffering intensely, his

only grain of comfort being that he was alone. His mother was away in

the north with Anne, and he had the place to himself. In his hand was

Theodora's letter. As Josiah had calculated, knowing cross-country

posts, both his and hers had arrived at the same time.

Hector paced and paced up and down, his thoughts maddening him.

And so three people were unhappy now--not he and his beloved one alone.

This was the greater calamity.

But how he had misjudged Josiah! The common, impossible husband had

behaved with a nobility, a justice, and forbearance which he knew his

own passionate nature would not have been capable of. It had touched him

to the core, and he had written at once in reply, enclosing Theodora's

letter about the arrival of the train.

"DEAR SIR,--I am overcome with your generosity and your

justice. I thank you for your letter and for your magnanimity in

forwarding the enclosure it contained. I understand and appreciate

the sentiment you express when you say, had you been younger you

would have killed me, and I on my side would have been happy to

offer you any satisfaction you might have wished, and am ready to

do so now if you desire it. At the same time, I would like you to

know, in deed, I have never injured you. My deep and everlasting

grief will be that I have brought pain and sorrow into the life of

a lady who is very dear to us both. My own life is darkened forever

as well, and I am going away out of England for a long time as soon

as I can make my arrangements. I will respect your desire never to

inform your wife of her mistake, and I will not trouble either of

you again. Only, by a later post, I intend to answer her letter and

say farewell.

"Believe me,

"Yours truly,

"BRACONDALE."

This he had despatched some hours ago, but his last good-bye to Theodora

was not yet written. What could he say to her? How could he tell her of

all the misery and anguish, all the pain which was racking his being;

he, who knew life and most things it could hold, and so could judge of

the fact that nothing, nothing, counted now but herself--and they should

meet no more, and it was the end. A blank, absolute end to all joy.

Nothing to exist upon but the remembrance of an hour or two's bliss and

a few tender kisses.